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The hunger was impossible to ignore now.
It had been easy to push it down, treat it like background noise, just like how the boots of the men outside his tiny room had faded into the background, at the beginning.
He was still able to mostly ignore it when his stomach protested with the occasional grumble and rumble.
But now? The hunger was like a knife raking across his entire self, a knife that was twisted and contorted every time he tried to move, hell, even breathe.
It was all he could focus on; the pain from his fractured arm long forgotten.
Cheeseburger. Steak. Loaded fries.
Shut up, he willed himself, not even being able to salivate at the thought of food.
He pushed himself up to a seated position slowly, the damp concrete floor chilling his bones.
No windows. A single door. A single bulb that fizzled out half the time, buzzing consistently nonetheless.
Day five. Or is it six now? He questioned, frustration building when he couldn’t answer the question.
It was hard to track time when he spent half his time being questioned over the task force’s latest operation, and the other half drifting in and out of a hunger-induced stupor.
He really should have eaten more of the breakfast that Oliveras had left out on the table, but he’d slept in, and had time to grab a single bagel and lukewarm coffee, half of which he ended up spilling when a car swerved into his lane.
Well, one hell of a bagel if I’m sustaining myself this long on it.
Bagel. French toast. Scrambled eggs.
Shut. It.
He licked his cracked lips, tasting of nothing but salt and dry skin. He stared in the corner where he’d left the dirty plastic bottle, rationing his water, not wanting to gulp down the liquid and then risk being thirsty too.
They wanted him weak. Wanted him malleable.
Wanted him to break and tell them who their mole was.
He would rather die than tell them it was her.
“Joke's on you,” Meachum mumbled out to nobody in particular, “I’m pretty stubborn when I’m hungry and pissed off.”
He forced himself to stand up, regretting that choice almost instantly as the room tilted and grey spots danced in his vision, obscuring the door. He placed his palms against the wall behind himself, steadying his swaying self, his breath stuck in his throat as a wave of nausea rolled over him.
He had to try again.
And if so, fail again.
But he couldn’t sit here and do nothing.
His legs trembled, disagreeing with his intention. After all, it was his left leg that had been shot at, the bullet skimming his calf, when he first tried to rescue himself.
Conserve your energy, wait for them to rescue you.
No time to do that. The Task Force was good, but Meachum hated to admit that these guys were better - for all intents and purposes, they were ghosts, untraceable, unfindable.
Almost, his optimistic self pointed out. After all, they had found them.
And that’s how their latest iteration of the task force came to fruition.
Still, if he wanted to leave this place himself, he was gonna have to walk out of here himself, most probably.
Outside, the heavy thud of boots grew louder, and he knew that in about thirty seconds, one of them would come into the room, no doubt check to see if he was alive.
Please let it be the smaller guy.
The smaller guy was sloppy and overconfident, treating him as something less than a non-threat.
Because you aren’t even an inkling of a threat, his pessimism spoke to him.
Mark stumbled to the side of the door, pushing his back against the cold concrete, holding back a sneeze, feeling his heart hammering far too much for the meagre amount of exertion he had just engaged with.
It’s not the body you’re used to.
It’s just a former shell, cannibalising itself to keep you breathing, to keep your blood flowing.
The lock clicked on the door, the echo of the bolt sliding back temporarily making Mark forget about his hunger.
The door groaned open, and Meachum lit up at the fact that it was indeed the smaller guard, shining a flashlight into the room, freezing when he wasn’t slumped in his usual corner.
“Where—” he began, stepping into the room.
Mark lunged.
In his mind, he executed his attack flawlessly - a precise takedown featuring a chop to the throat and a knee to the scrawny man’s solar plexus.
In reality, however, to call Mark’s movements an attack would be the biggest overstatement of the year, gaslighting of the highest level.
It was nothing more than a desperate shove against the guard’s back, followed by a pitiful attempt to wrap his hands around his thick neck.
Probably felt less threatening than a dandelion attack.
His only advantage was the element of surprise - the guard certainly hadn’t expected it, and he stumbled forward, tripping over his own two feet.
Now or never, Meachum.
He stumbled his way through the open door, his body colliding with the opposite wall, an action that normal wouldn’t even be registered by his body now sending pain signals throughout, begging his body to curl up and wait for the pain to pass, rather than keep pushing on with his famished body.
Can’t. Stop. Now.
“You son of a—“ the guard yelled, reaching for what Meachum ascertained to be a radio.
He carried on down the dimly lit corridor, a small wisp of a smile on his face as he saw stairs at the far end.
His way out.
Freedom.
He willed his body to sprint, but with his energy levels akin to a car running on fumes, the most he could do was a steady, but slightly brisk, walk, hoping he had bought himself enough time with the shove.
He heard the guard shouting behind him now, much louder, his far quicker pace echoing in the hallway.
Somebody grabbed the scuff of his neck before his foot even hovered over the steps, slamming against the wall.
Lights out.
Meachum woke up in a smaller room this time, an empty water bottle mockingly left in the corner, the bitter taste of defeat the only thing he could feast on now.